To Deceive a Duke (23 page)

When he had kidnapped Clio, he had wanted only to keep
her out of the way, safe, until everything here was finished. He should have known better, of course. Clio was like no other woman he had ever met. Her fierce intelligence, her steadfast independence—the determination that led to the Lily Thief—would always be there. She could not stay quietly at home when action was needed over a cause she believed in, no more than he could. And that was why he had come to love her so very much.

Edward stopped just outside his house, suddenly astonished. Not that he loved Clio, but that it had taken him so long, so many turns, to admit it. He
loved
her! Loved everything about her, even the stubbornness that drove him to madness. She was his other half. His helpmeet. His duchess, whether she believed it or not.

There was just nothing else for it. She would have to marry him, even if she continued to protest. Honour demanded it, after what had happened between them in the cottage. And love…

Love demanded it, too. She would surely come to see that, just as he had.

They
would
be wed, the moment danger was past. And he would keep her safe.

C
lio peered out from behind a screen, hastily erected at the back of the amphitheatre stage to provide effects for their play. The theatricals hadn’t begun yet; the audience was just arriving, trickling to their places on cushions scattered about on the stone benches. The sun was setting over the valley, illuminating their fine clothes, the silken gowns of the English ladies, Rosa and her Santa Lucia friends in their best black dresses. They all seemed to be talking and laughing as if it was a normal evening out. No one suspected anything.

‘Is everyone here?’ Thalia asked.

Clio glanced back, and smiled at her sister. Thalia wore her costume, a fanciful creation of cheesecloth and white muslin. The ragged hem and the ends of the draped sleeves were tinted pale silver, a colour that would catch the flickering lamplight and glow with an otherworldly illumination. She did not yet wear her headdress, and her golden hair fell loose over her shoulders.

Thalia didn’t seem nervous at all, Clio thought. In fact, she seemed far calmer than usual, her blue eyes serene as she mouthed her lines one last time.

Clio, on the other hand, felt all alight with nerves. The anticipation, the calm before the theatrical storm, vibrated all through her. They had had to prepare everything so hastily, she wasn’t sure any of it would work. What would become of the silver, of all of them, then?

And what, oh,
what
, would she say to Edward’s proposal? That was the greatest uncertainty of all.

She pressed her hand tight to her fluttering, aching stomach. ‘No, not everyone is here yet,’ she answered Thalia. ‘Mr Frobisher and Lady Riverton are nowhere to be seen.’

She peered again past the screen, and saw that Giacomo was not yet there, either. There were a few men from the village she had heard might be involved in a bit of recreational pottery hunting. But Rosa sat with just Paolo, a couple of their daughters and some grandchildren, and a few of her friends. The children scampered up and down the tiered stone steps, scandalising the English guests with their playful shouts. Sir Walter sat with Cory and Lady Rushworth in the front row, where Clio could keep an eye on them.

‘Never mind. We still have lots of time before curtain. I’m sure they’ll arrive at any moment,’ Thalia said. ‘Come and help me finish getting ready?’

‘Of course.’

Thalia had set up a small mirror in the corner, with a table scattered with an array of brushes, hairpins and theatrical maquillage. Clio had no idea where Thalia had procured those strange little pots and bottles. Probably she had broken in backstage at Drury Lane one night and insisted some hapless actress sell them to her.

‘Here,’ Thalia said, handing Clio a pot of what appeared to be chalk and a little brush. ‘Sweep this over my forehead
and cheeks, like so. It will give me a wonderful pallor. I’ll look quite dead.’

Clio shuddered, spilling some of the white stuff on the table. ‘Don’t say such things, Thalia.’

‘Clio! Never say you have become superstitious, too.’

‘No sense in taking chances.’

‘Well, let’s hope your
tombaroli
are of the same opinion. No one wants to anger the spirits.’ Thalia turned her face up to the fading light, holding still as Clio dusted a thick wash over her skin. The roses-and-cream complexion quickly turned to ashes.

‘What is this stuff, anyway?’ Clio asked. ‘It’s quite good.’

‘Isn’t it? I heard Mrs Thompson uses it at Covent Garden whenever she plays a spectre. I have some lip salve, too.’ Thalia reached for a tiny bottle, rubbing a bit of grey over her lips. ‘Do I look frightening?’

‘Terribly,’ Clio said truthfully. She longed to scrub away every bit of the grey and white from her sister’s pretty face, to make her alive again, but Thalia spun away from her. She stood before the mirror, fitting on her headdress of more cheesecloth and white feathers.

‘Don’t worry, Clio,’ she said. ‘Everything will go perfectly. You won’t be sorry you asked for my help.’

‘Of course I won’t. If anyone could scare the truth out of Lady Riverton and her thieves, it’s you. Just promise me you’ll be careful.’

‘Certainly she will be careful,’ Marco interrupted. ‘She will be with me, won’t she?’

Clio turned to find him emerging from his own ‘dressing room’ behind yet more screens. He wore the costume of a peasant shepherd, rough russet-coloured wool breeches and waistcoat, a cap on his raven hair. He carried the ‘cursed object’ his character stole from a tomb, a fake Etruscan vase
painted with the large letters ‘Belonging To The Gods’. Just like the inscription on the silver.

Thalia rolled her eyes, but Clio could see the shadow of a smile on her grey lips. ‘I can take care of myself, thank you very much.’

Clio could tell that Marco longed to argue. Honestly, every time she saw those two together they were arguing! They seemed to take a strange delight in it. But there was no time now. She held up her hand, forestalling any quarrelsome words, and said, ‘Go practise your lines, both of you. It’s almost dark.’

She peeked around the screen again. The amphitheatre was filling up, as it had not since ancient days, and Giacomo was now with his family, fidgeting in his seat as he glanced nervously around. Ronald Frobisher was also there, holding his little court with the friends who always gathered around him and Lady Riverton. But of the lady herself, there was no sign.

Clio’s gaze swung over the audience. Servants were lighting the torches along the stone steps, and the lamps on the stage that served as footlights flickered in the soft breeze. The glow illuminated laughing faces, the sparkle of jewels.

Along the very top row of seats, half-hidden in the darkness so far from the torches, she glimpsed Edward’s bright hair. He, too, surveyed the crowd, tense and watchful.

Reassured by his presence, Clio turned back to Marco and Thalia. ‘I think it’s time,’ she said. ‘If we wait too long the audience will become restless.’

‘And perhaps throw rotten fruit at us,’ Thalia said. ‘That would quite spoil the mood, I fear.’

Clio smoothed the skirt of her amber-coloured muslin gown one more time, before she slipped around the screen and
stepped to the edge of the stage. As she held up her hands, the audience shifted into expectant silence.

‘Good evening, everyone, and thank you so much for being here on such short notice,’ she announced, gaining new strength and confidence from knowing Edward was out there beyond the blinding lights. That soon this would be over, and they would have the truth at last.

‘As you know, my sister Miss Thalia Chase is very talented at amateur theatricals,’ Clio went on. ‘What you may not know is that she is also a playwright. We have not before been able to persuade her to share her work, but she has been so inspired by this beautiful place that we were able to convince her to perform this little scene. Because we know that you, too, love Santa Lucia and its intriguing history.’

Clio stepped a bit closer to the lights. ‘My sister’s tale is based on stories she has heard,
true
stories of a violent past, brave deeds and hidden treasures. Long ago, this Greek settlement was invaded by a Roman army, which laid all to waste and enslaved the people. What had been a prosperous, idyllic town, with a marketplace, baths, theatres and fine villas, was ruined.

‘But a few people managed to flee. They left behind them beautiful objects, sacred things. They did not, however, leave them unprotected…’

Clio stepped back behind the screen as Marco took his place on stage. He began the tale of the shepherd who finds a vase buried behind the walls of a ruined Greek farmhouse, and determines to steal it. Thalia waited in the wings, a truly fearsome sight in her make-up and draperies.

Clio stood where she could continue to watch the audience unobserved. Was Giacomo shifting even more nervously in his seat? Was Frobisher looking guilty? And where was Lady Riverton, the centre of it all?

Yet there was no time to worry now. Action was needed. The plan was in motion. As Thalia glided on to the stage, her arms raised as she crept up behind Marco, Clio reached for her own costume. It was made of cheesecloth and muslin like Thalia’s, and with a deep hood to hide behind.

Once covered, she crept out through a hole in the back wall of the amphitheatre, dashing up the hillside and around to where the main entrance led to the old agora. From there, she could peer down on all the activity with her spyglass.

Thalia was cursing Marco quite enthusiastically for taking that which belonged to the gods, the vase that had been buried so long ago and ringed round with spells to keep it safe. Marco’s tormented screams were all too convincing, quite terrifying really. Clio wondered if Thalia had pinched him under her draperies. The audience members either looked on in wide-eyed, delicious horror, or giggled nervously. Frobisher peered back over his shoulder, a handkerchief wound tightly in his hand.

And Clio found she was, strangely enough, rather enjoying herself.

As Marco’s torment went on, she was so caught up in the scene that she almost missed what she had been waiting for. Giacomo emerged from the theatre, glancing frantically both ways through the deserted old marketplace. His brow glistened nervously in the moonlight. As he took off running toward the ruins of the temple, Clio followed, glad of all the recent hill-walking that made her sure-footed and fast on the bumpy pathways.
And
glad of the fact that Giacomo’s fear seemed to make him clumsy, unsure of his direction.

She scrambled up atop a large boulder that lay by his meandering path, and held her arms up. The breeze stirred her draped sleeves in a gratifyingly eerie manner.

‘Halt! Thief!’ she cried, in as deep a voice as she could summon. ‘You have stolen what belongs to the gods.’

Distracted and frightened by her shout, Giacomo stumbled just long enough for Edward to tackle him from the shadows. The timing on this part of the plan, on the entire plan really, was so delicately balanced. But this bit came off just right. Clio watched in satisfaction as Edward leaped up, dragging Giacomo to his feet and holding him fast even as Giacomo struggled desperately to escape.

Clio clambered down from her perch, crouching behind the boulder to keep a watch on the distant theatre entrance. Surely the other players would soon make their appearance, if all went well.

And if Giacomo’s thieving cohorts didn’t interfere.

She pressed her palm to her leg, feeling the reassuring weight of the dagger strapped there beneath the muslin and cheesecloth.

‘It’s very rude to leave the theatre before the final curtain,’ Edward said calmly, almost conversationally. Clio peeked around the rough corner of the boulder to see him holding the frantically twisting Giacomo as if the thief was naught but a rag doll.

Surely no one would recognise the indolent Duke of ‘Avarice’ now!

‘Why were you running?’ Edward said. ‘Did Miss Thalia’s play strike a chord with you, perhaps? Remind you of some previous obligation?’

Giacomo babbled something in quick, rough Italian. Clio couldn’t catch it all, something about warnings and how he had ‘told them’ it was not safe. She could hear the raw edge of cold fear, though. The panicked sense of the line between reality and dream blurred.

Good
. Maybe it would keep him away from tomb-robbing in the future, and reassure Rosa at last. But in the meantime they still had to find the silver. And stay out of danger themselves.

‘I know you found part of that silver hoard,’ Edward said, also in Italian. ‘Did you find the rest? Where is it?’

‘The altar set,
sí
. We found it.’

‘And sold it?’ Edward said, his voice tight with fury. Clio certainly did not envy Giacomo his current predicament. ‘Illegally?’

‘I should not have! I know the legend, the curse. My mother warned me…’

‘But ancient ghosts were nothing to modern coin, eh?’

‘It said it belonged to the gods, and I should have listened! Like the Count.’

‘Count di Fabrizzi? Is he part of this?’

Clio tensed as she waited for the answer.

‘No, no,’ Giacomo said. ‘He knew better. You saw him tonight.’

‘Then who did pay you?’ Edward demanded. ‘Who is your English customer? Frobisher?’

‘Of course. He is the one who first approached us. Yet the money does not come from him. He’s hired, just as we are. He pretends he is not, but we all know the truth.’

‘Lady Riverton,’ Edward said slowly. ‘She is the one who hires you and Frobisher, then, just as we suspected.’

Before Giacomo could answer, could give them the confirmation they sought, Clio saw Ronald Frobisher himself emerge from the theatre. The play was not yet over; she could hear the echo of Thalia’s voice. Yet Frobisher seemed intent on his own errand, hurrying toward the pathway to Santa Lucia. He didn’t run or babble, like poor, frightened Giacomo, but he was obviously in a great rush all the same.

Clio cast off her robes, shoving them into a crevice at the base of the boulder before she darted out and grabbed Edward’s arm.

‘There he is,’ she urged him. ‘We have to go!’

Edward nodded brusquely. He let go of Giacomo, who sank to the ground with his hands over his face.

‘Shame on you, Giacomo!’ Clio shouted back at him, as she and Edward ran off after Frobisher. ‘What would your parents say?’

‘And what would
your
parent say, my dear, if he could see you now?’ Edward said. She marvelled that he could go from menacing to teasing in an instant. She was so very excited she was sure she would scream at any moment! ‘Running off with a man into the night?’

‘He would say we have to save the antiquities, of course. He
is
Sir Walter Chase. Now
hurry
!’

They ran up the path, trying to keep Ronald Frobisher in sight, but he was surprisingly quick for someone who professed complete indolence. Clio’s lungs burned, her legs ached, yet she did not slow down. She held tightly to Edward’s hand as they dashed through the village gates into Santa Lucia.

The town was quiet, as almost everyone was gathered at the theatre. The evening breeze blew clouds of dust across the square, bits of paper and leaves over the cathedral steps. Frobisher was nowhere to be seen.